


Death is a Fanfic writer

by bloodlessdandy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BAMF Death, Christmas Delight (in July wtf bro), Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Established Relationship, Family Reunions, Fanfic inception, Fluff, M/M, Mild Snogging, Not Beta'd: We Die Like Men, Post-Armageddon, Slice of Life, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Somewhat crack, biker Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 07:23:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20042122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodlessdandy/pseuds/bloodlessdandy
Summary: Yes, you got that right.Death is a Fanfiction writer.





	Death is a Fanfic writer

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly, I have no sanity left.  
There's Death, centre of my world and my everlasting crush, and there's fanfiction writing, and then... Christmas stuff (which was totally inspired by these 40 degrees in July, legit).  
It's not entirely crack. It's not entirely fluff either. It's something.  
Enjoy the ride.

_THAT'S HOW MY STORY BEGINS._

He typed. You might assume he typed _angrily_, but in truth he just typed.

_WITH A COSMIC ORDER._

A smoking cup in black ceramic was sitting by his side. A double cappuccino, in case you're wondering what Death drinks.

_AND AN ANGEL AND A DEMON WHO CLEARLY LOVED EACH OTHER._

Quite frankly, they were absolutely ridiculous.

‘Yeah but’, Adam chewed on his candy apple, ‘how about you ask him already?’

‘Sorry, dear. I didn’t quite catch that. Ask him _what _exactly?’ Aziraphale, his fingers busy with his precious knitting kit, was sitting by the fire placidly. Knitting, together with the plum pudding, was one of his favourite things of Christmas.

‘I’m talkin’ about a date, you berk.’ Pieces of sugary fruit flew from Adam’s mouth.

Aziraphale blushed. Quite surprisingly, since he had already been suggested the same thing over and over for the past three days, spent with the kids at Anathema’s house.

First, it had been Wensleydale to bring up the whole blasted thing - argument as follows: he brought you on top of a skyscraper _(ohgod ohgod ohgod so frightening),_ asking him out is the least you can do; then, it was Pepper's turn, who supplied Aziraphale with a 20-minutes completely unnecessary conversation on the risks of falling into the unconscious patterns of toxic masculinity just because you don’t want to ask your _bro_ to be his _pro_. Or your _mate_ to be your _date_. But toxic masculinity wasn’t a problem for Aziraphale – in fact, masculinity wasn’t a problem at all, what with being intrinsically a sexless angel.

The problem was: what if Crowley said no? Or, worse: what if he said yes? What would Aziraphale do then? He couldn’t risk it. Simple, he just couldn’t. He would have no idea where to take him, to begin with, and Crowley was too special to be brought somewhere half as fantastic. Then, would it be over lunch? Over breakfast? Over tea? Too many options, too many variables. And what if something happened? What if something _unexpected_ happened? No, he couldn’t deal with it. Breaking the routine meant looking for trouble.

With this frightening thought in mind, he kept knitting – except a little bit more anxiously than before, so that the smiling face the knit was supposed to show would have that kind of Margaret-Thatcher-smiling vibe once completed.

‘You must understand, dear Adam’ he replied, after having pondered his words carefully, ‘that Crowley is always up to something. He’s a…busy man. A _very_ busy man, in fact.’ Poor excuse.

However, the fact that it had been Christmas Day for twelve hours already and he hadn’t arrived yet kind of proved Aziraphale’s point.

HE SHOULD DO SOMETHING COOL.

And no one objected to Death’s wish. After all, it was his fanfiction and he could do whatever he wanted to.

Also, no one _dared_ objecting.

Crowley had a Bentley. That was canonically decided. Crowley, however, also had a Harley Davidson. Now, that’s cool. He had a Harley Davidson which he absolutely _loved_ driving. He went to all the meet-ups, complimented other fellow bikers on their leather jackets, exchanged advice on where to buy the coolest sunglasses on the market, and everything a textbook biker does.

The hum of the tires. That brought him back to Milwaukee 1932, when…

THIS COULD APPEAR TO BE OFF TOPIC.

Death stopped typing, then scraped the last sentence. He hated going off topic and boring his readers. Good fanfiction writers don’t do that.

Crowley had a Harley Davidson. He went to biker meet-ups regularly. He wouldn’t miss one of them. In fact, there he was, on the day of the Lord (the birthday of the Lord, to be precise), coming back from one. The engine purred and the tires slid on the dusty road as he sped towards Tadfield, afraid that some angel might kick his ass if he didn’t show up on time for lunch.

Luckily enough, Death is in charge of his fanfiction, so who cares about temporal accuracy. Crowley would arrive on time.

‘Hope you put the right one in the oven. I could never forgive myself if you had accidentally put my angel instead of the roast...’ Crowley’s arrival and adorably bitchy remark were met by the crowd at the table with a roar of excitement.

‘Finally! We thought you wouldn’t make it!’ Adam shouted, arms in the air, from the head of the table.

One would have thought it was the potato mash he was ogling at, but Aziraphale’s face lit up as a consequence of lifting up his eyes and seeing Crowley taking off his leather jacket and sitting right next to him. Crowley couldn’t help grinning back, a hand running on the angel’s soft nape in a sweet caress.

‘Glad you’re here and not in the tray next to the potatoes.’ He bent, planting a kiss on Aziraphale’s messy apricot-smelling hair.

‘Merry Christmas, darling.’ Aziraphale purred, his hand reaching Crowley’s and squeezing it gently.

‘Careful not to drop all that sugar, you two!’ Anathema, who was sitting next to Adam, was unashamedly enjoying the scene as she passed the tray to Pepper.

It was a matter of seconds before Newt arrived in his peacock apron, holding a smoking tray and struggling hard with his clumsiness not to trip and spill stuff all over the place. Pepper gave Anathema an approving look. That’s a real man in there, rejoicing of the bliss of house chores.

It was, to everybody’s surprise, the smoothest and merriest Christmas they had ever had. In a way, it really was a family lunch, after everything they had been through together. And to make the experience truly unforgettable, they even Skyped Shadwell and Madame Tracy, who sent kisses and hugs from their lovely cottage in the South. There had been a lot of good food, amazing company, Christmas crackers on the table, whiskey and shortbread biscuits and, finally, the much awaited moment of unwrapping presents.

It was so different from the last time they had been all together. Life was good.

THIS LAST SENTENCE FEELS WRONG.

Death sipped his double cappuccino thoughtfully.

There was, however, a business that remained unsolved.

While the kids were playing with their new toys and Anathema and Newt were, judging by the sound of it, hanging some pictures with nails and hammer upstairs, two individuals were sitting by the fire. One of them was on his third helping of pudding, the other was Crowley.

‘So, how was your morning? Still knitting that creepy scarf for Anathema?’ Crowley smirked.

‘It isn’t creepy at all. It’s a token of my affection.’ Aziraphale raised one eyebrow, then sank the spoon in his pudding again.

‘You’re knitting an image of her face. Who would wear a scarf with their own face on it?’

‘Cher, probably.’ The angel nodded, deep in thought. ‘Elton John, perhaps…’

‘Ah, no point in explaining the concept of rhetorical questions again.’ Crowley shook his head, but he was visibly amused. He found Aziraphale’s new-found interest in pop culture – _gay_ pop culture – rather cute.

He coughed to clear his throat before speaking again. ‘So, when are you gonna ask?’

‘Ask what, dear?’ All cosy and wrapped up in his blanket – which he himself had spent sleepless nights knitting, thank you very much – he struggled to stretch his arm towards the coffee table to lay the empty plate on it.

‘Ask me out. For a date. Together. With snogs.’

For the umpteenth time that day, the hue of Aziraphale’s face escalated from bright pink to pepper red in less than thirty seconds.

‘Er, I, _er_’, he gulped, ‘well, since you’re asking…’ He then added, trying to conceal a broad grin. Had he been a frog, he would have jumped forward, leaping straight on Crowley’s lap in excitement. ‘Where would you like to go?’

‘I don’t know. Not some _boring_ place. On the moon?’ Crowley shrugged, his lips still curved in a satisfied smile.

Anybody who thought Aziraphale was weak-willed forgot that he was, first and foremost, soft-hearted. And also quite soft overall. ‘Deal. The moon it is, then.’

_Anything_ to make his demon happy.

He got up from his armchair, unwrapped from his cosy tangle of warm blankets and reached Crowley’s hand to pick it up gently and plant a kiss on its back.

‘Tea?’ He whispered before kissing his hand again.

‘How could I _sssay_ no to that face.’ Crowley’s level of relax, _bliss_ almost, was given away from a sonorous hiss.

Seconds after, Aziraphale was in the kitchen, putting the kettle on and nibbling some leftover candy while waiting for water to boil. The house was quiet now. _Dead_ quiet. The kids were outside, probably up to some mayhem, Newt and Anathema were enjoying their nap after hanging those pictures hard, very hard, so… It felt just like the old times. Just like the old times in the Garden of Eden: there was a large space, a house, and a demon and an angel to making it into their home.

Aziraphale was pouring the hot water in the cups, when something – rather, _someone_ – slithered stealthily behind his back, landing with his chin on his shoulder.

‘So, did you like my present’, it was more of a blood-melting purr than an actual question.

‘Like it? How could I not _love_ it? It’s the best stack of books I have _ever_ received in my life. And, not to brag, but I have the core texts of the library of Alexandria…’ Aziraphale nodded proudly as his hands slid on Crowley’s arms, which were jealously enveloping the angel and snatching him from the chilly air of the kitchen.

‘D-did you like mine?’ The angel stuttered. It was a silly gift, compared to what Crowley had given him – which consisted of: books, books, books and a lifetime supply of happiness.

‘That helmet for my bike is so freaking badass. The flames, the python and skull...I still can’t believe you picked it. ’ A low laughter left Crowley’s lips, now dangerously gravitating close to Aziraphale’s neck. He left a kiss on his ear, then whispered, ‘I needed a new one. Amazing how you can read my mind, angel...In fact, I think you should do it more often.’

That sentence had begun as an outpour of love, but Crowley’s way of doing these things implied that his voice had to shift from _adoring_ to _obscene_ halfway through the sentence.

‘Crowley, not here. The kids-…’ Aziraphale instinctively closed his eyes, leaning closer to his demon, craving his attentions although his words suggested otherwise.

‘Ah, the kids are outside. Probably stalking some poor toad in the mud.’ His fingers slid under Aziraphale’s sweater, pinching his hips softly while he left a kiss on his neck. ‘Beside, I may have another present for you.’

Maybe it was the hot tea that was too close to his face, or maybe it was Crowley kissing and licking portions of his skin with _those_ lips and _that_ bloody tongue, but what’s sure is that Aziraphale's face suddenly flushed and shivered in Crowley's arms. Crowley’s hands had lingered on his hips long enough, now the time had come to dedicate some time and attention to other parts.

Aziraphale turned, so that he could face him and put his arms around Crowley’s waist. His lips joined Crowley’s in a soft kiss, which soon turned into something more audacious. That kiss went straight from appetizer, to main course to…luscious dessert. When Aziraphale’s lips let out a low moan, Crowley grinned shamelessly, resisting the temptation to bite the angel’s ripe lower lip.

‘_Ooh la la_, angel.’ He murmured before sending both his hands on a _hard_ quest, sampling the flesh of Aziraphale’s thighs underneath his corduroy trousers. It took him approximately two seconds, fast as he was to slide on things, to slide all the way down on his knees, glancing up to meet Aziraphale’s luridly surprised smile. What Crowley did next sent the angel’s head spinning,

‘Death! Come oooon! We’re playing Risk and it’s no fun without you…War keeps cheating!’

Pollution’s lean figure made its appearance in the room. A crown of pale hair encircled their childlike, jocund face.

And, just like that, all the hype died.

I AM BUSY. I WILL BE THERE FOR COFFEE.

‘But…It’s our first Christmas together.’ Pollution had something irresistible to them. And Death had, as you may imagine, somewhat of a soft spot for those three troublemakers. So much that he had actually agreed to spend Christmas with them. But their company getting in the way of his fanfiction writing session, _that_ he hadn’t predicted.

ALRIGHT. I WILL BE THERE SHORTLY.

‘What were you doing?’ Fast as a hare, Pollution leapt on their tiptoes and peeped at the laptop screen, managing to read a couple of tell-tale words. ‘Oh, my. You’re can’t be serious… You’re _not_ writing stuff about Aziraphale and Crowley.’ It looked as if Pollution could burst out laughing any second.

WELL, I AM. BELIEVE IT OR NOT, I HAVE A PENCHANT FOR CREATIVE WRITING.

Pollution shook their head, then smirked in his general direction.

‘Oh, wait until Famine knows about this.’ They snorted. ‘You would never believe it…He has a thing for fanarts. An’ does some very odd conceptual stuff with watercolours too…’

Death looked interested. Or at least, it would have, had it not been for his atypical features making it impossible to clearly make out what facial expression he was going for.

‘Are you not afraid of what they could say, the demon and the angel I mean, if they knew?’ Pollution had their arms crossed on their chest now – and was about to giggle again, by the looks of it.

WELL, THEY MADE ME PART OF THEIR WORLD. I WAS, _TECHNICALLY_, INVITED.

And Pollution didn’t question it.

Wisely, because you don’t question Death.

Or fanfiction writers. Especially fanfiction writers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reaching this point, you brave souls. I'll offer you a pint anyway, even if you're a silent reader, but hey I won't lie: comments really make my day.  
❤


End file.
